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My family is joining me in this therapy ride, whether they like (or know) it or not.

Thoughts on therapy.

EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy is an interactive psychotherapy technique used to relieve psychological stress. It’s often used to treat trauma and post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which I’ve had for over three years thanks to Rapegate.

This poop emoji raft really “gets” me. I want to float on it every Thursday after therapy.

PTSD doesn’t necessarily last forever – but it can linger. It’s just the fucking hardest thing to describe a disorder that is invisible. It’s like having a ghost live within you and it comes out to haunt your body where its housed anytime it motherfucking pleases. Just like no two rapes are the same, no two pregnancies are the same, no two diagnosis of PTSD are the same.

I need a tank that reads “Surprise! It’s PTSD!”

So, there are obviously different treatment approaches depending on the person, the therapist, the situation. I started with Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). Rationally, I knew it wasn’t my fault I was raped. But I could not help but feel that I letit happen to me. I was my own worst enemy, standing in the way of my recovery process due to my black and white thinking. I still wrestle with this after three years of therapy but CBT helps you become aware of inaccurate or negative thinking so you can view challenging situations more clearly and respond to them in a more effective way. Coping mechanisms are put into place and for me, mine is – ‘would you talk to a friend like this?’ Fuck no I wouldn’t, so quit talking to yourself this way.

We can be our own worst enemy. CBT helps anyone learn how to better manage stressful life situations.

Jazz hands also help.

Starting EMDR with my therapist, Superhero Sheila, I was told to think of a happy, relaxing, real life place. Somewhere I’ve experienced first hand, where I felt safe. It took me a minute but I thought about water. I thought about laughing. I thought about what I loved in my life. Maybe it’s the time of year, but my safe place is memories of time spent at the Lake of the Ozarks with my family every Fourth of July.

We kinda had some fun there over the years.

From wapatoolies, to aqua bars, to tattoos, to boys against girls Trivial Pursuit games (pretty sure the chicks won more), I can envision this place and be at ease. Hearing the boat motors, my family’s belly laughing, smelling the lake water, my uncle ‘washing’ his hair in the lake (true Griswolds move right here), the relentless teasing, remembering my sister getting hit in the face with a can of Budweiser thrown from the boat to the water (ah, memories).

The first thing for me to tackle in EMDR was the exit off of the interstate which leads to the house where I was raped. My ex friend’s house. I pass by that exit almost every day. And every.single.time I think, “oh, that leads to Ex Friend’s house where I was raped.” It doesn’t ruin my day. I don’t ruminate over it. But it’s a thought that pops in my head and can causes anxiety that sometimes spills into my daily life.

To tackle this, Superhero Sheila hands me a device with two knobs – one for each hand. They vibrate, alternating, then at the same time, then alternating, using both your right and left sides of the brain to re-train your thoughts.

“Close your eyes.”

“You’re driving on Interstate I40, coming up to the exit. You see it through the windshield.”

*feel pang in my stomach, think of safe place*

Driving a boat at Lake of the Ozarks.

“You are getting closer to the exit, what are you feeling.”

*pang in belly, think of safe place*

Oh hello boozy party cove.

“Are you going to pass the exit or get off?”

*if I get off here now in my thoughts, it will take me to the place where I was raped…think of safe place*

Laughing with family.

All day laughing with family.

Family laughing all day with help from Jell-O shots…

…and whipped cream.

“You are going to pass by the exit. What are you thinking?”

*why are there tears starting to roll down my face..stop it…think happy place*

Lake of the Ozark patio karaoke nights.

With a microphone hog.

“Are you OK? Do you want to keep going?”

*yes…even though a river of snot is now accompanying the stream of tears down my neck*

“Know that this exit, this representation has a beginning, a middle and an end. You’re OK. How do you feel?”

*I feel…better…no dull ache in my body but what do I do when I drive by the exit…fucking christ, how will I feel then…*

“You will go to your secure place. You will use your coping tools. Now open your eyes. How do you feel?”

I feel safe. I feel happy.

Therapy of any kind is fucking hard. The interstate exit is the smallest of my issues that root in my Rapegate anxiety but, as with anything, sticking to it is a gigantic key to my recovery process. No matter how much I want to quit. No matter how many fucking tears I shed. No matter what. It’s my key to carrying on.

Here’s hoping you have a secure and favorable place to go in your mind, whenever you need.

Be your own badass – with as much help as you need. Thanks to my own version of the Griswolds family, I am…how bad can that be?!

It’s that time of year that green is all around us in Nashville as a welcomed sight. The grass, the leaves and this past weekend, the hue of celebrating the patron saint of Ireland, Patrick.

I met up with one of my former band mates, Keys, and we had a fun catch up lunch at my fave watering hole, Dalts.

Old friends make me a lucky gal.

Friends of yesteryear also keep me company with kind words and support he’s always throwing behind me.

I had a guest coming over for supper (oh, we will get into this supper vs. dinner debate at a later date) Friday evening and I hadn’t made my Lazy Lasagna (or anything that didn’t simply require a microwave heat up) in…well, I can’t remember when. Naturally, I acted like I was concocting an eight course meal, when really I was just layering ingredients.

Slaving away for supper.

Lucky for me, it turned out in my favor.

Once the lasagna was baked and in my belly, I promptly took a 16 hour nap, gearing up for the weekend festivities.

Pot of gold kickers.

In celebration of the season, I’d gussied up my pink tinsel Christmas Celebration tree and sat to enjoy my Saturday spiked coffee in front of it.

Lucky tree.

Perk Me Up.

Meeting up with friends for the celebration of Irish culture did not make for a dull time.

Lucky ladies.

I’m gonna need these hearts in pink for daily use.

We saw nothing but green until we started to consume cocktails of the day’s hue.

The Queen of green Jell-O shots…

.. might have had me seeing black and white.

While I was busy with Shamrock Shenanigans, my Iowa twins were road tripping down South.

Lucky they’re on their way to see me!

My neck aches for them.

It’s hard to remember just how little these two nuggets were a mere three years ago.

Time flies with twinning fun.

Three years later and still the cutest two shits I know.

Speaking of shits, I’m lucky to know the most fun one in all of Iowa City. My buddy N8 never misses a chance to morph into the best leprechaun every year.

Lucky leaning tower of green.

On Sunday, the actual day of Saint Patrick, I met up with First Mate for a gulp of our favorite boxed rosé. Although we didn’t get the green dye for to properly mark the occasion, we made do.

Pink and green are the perfect pairing.

It was so fabulous outside, we couldn’t resist a patio where Van Waffle asked me to take his picture. The fucking nerve.

My thoughts on being the photographer vs. the model.

All in all, the weekend of sunny skies, fabulous company and fun made me feel like the luckiest girl. Although, what makes my world go round always takes my lucky cake…

I’m talking about the hair metal 80s band, not the princess of course.

I think we all can relate to the sentiment in one way or another. However, when it comes to peeps in my life that I love, you’re either in or out. One quality that I gratefully possess is I am never regretful of time spent with folks that I hold in my heart, nor do I take time with them for granted. That’s why for me, when you love the fuck out of someone and they no longer roam the earth, it can be a heart yanking time when their milestones still appear annually.

Aunt Crazy Pants celebrated her first birthday above on February 23, and in honor of this occasion, Mama CBXB came to Nashville and we par-tayed the only we way our family ever does. Trashtacularly.

On ACP’s actual day of birth, we took her to get her cocktail of choice, gin rickeys, at my fave local watering hole, Dalts.

A hungover day later, we went to get permanent tributes of the lady whose favorite color was green, loved shamrocks and owned one of the most unique signatures ever, which is what we were going to have tattooed on our wrists. I gussied up in my green heels I fashioned at the celebration of ACP’s life, perfected my mani to match and we were ready to go.

In summers of yesteryear, our families would spend Fourth of Julys at the Lake of the Ozarks. Which entailed not only in boating and booze but often tattoos and belly button piercings. Yes, yes, you read that right. I even think we made each new girlfriend of our dude cousins get belly button rings on their first Fourth with us. (A dream come true family that acts like a fraternity right here folks).

I was with ACP when she got her first ink from none other than the not even close to being world famous Tattoo Ted in the Ozarks.

We may have had one or eight drinks with sun poisoning but what did it matter?

With our history of classiness, we brought ACP along with us in spirit as Mama CBXB and I rolled into the Rebel Yell Tattoo and Social Club that came highly recommended.

When we traipsed through the doors, I’m fairly certain all four folks in the shop on a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon were well aware that this wasn’t a past time in which we often partook. Especially when I wondered aloud with Justin, our extremely patient artist, how a tattoo on my wrist would look when I do jazz hands. Because I use them a lot. Like, we seriously had a five-minute conversation about it, he put a stencil on my wrist with ACP’s name facing me and let me look in a mirror before I decided how I wanted the fucking three-inch artwork done.

I mean you guys. Obvies we use them.

All.the.time.

Maybe our novice was a dead giveaway when I asked my mom 400 times in the seven minutes it took Justin to tattoo her wrist if she was going to cry when it was over (she did – Tearfest 2018).

My defense mechanism against physical pain is apparently laughing because it’s all I did the entire time my four-minute ink was being perfected. Justin kept stopping to ask if I was OK and all I could do was giggle in the most unquiet way possible.

So what did these bad ass mother fuckers do? Celebrated with cocktails of course!

And it just so happened that two of ACP’s grandgirls came through Nashville that night, so we all cheersed our hearts out to the lady we love and miss.

Bittersweet without sharing the experience with ACP, there’s something ultra comforting to know she’s right here on my wrist. There have been some dark days for me recently, and I’ve found myself flipping my wrist over, admiring her signature, reminiscing on conversations, knowledge, 1,573,982,400 laughs and love we shared over her lifetime.

What I come to think of most is right after Rapegate, ACP was one of the first phone calls I received as the news made its way through my family. Her first words were, “you’re already one helluva strong lady – but you’ll be the strongest woman you know now.” The same words rang true when we found out she had terminal cancer six months later – and I repeated her words of wisdom back to her.

While cancer can go fuck itself, I’m comforted by the fact that I knew what I had with ACP before she was gone. Which is why her absence is ever present, more so now that I’m a bad ass mother fucker with a fancy signature on my wrist.

I’ve never been one to take my family or time with them for granted, so it was real bummer when my Gma passed away two years ago. Not only was she one of my best buddies, I know I inherited her brutal honesty, ornery streak and love of having my fingernails polished.

To celebrate what would have been her 94 birthday today, an ode to my Gma the great!

Always one to laugh at surprises…

…you took to my photobombing like it was one of your most treasured prizes.

You never let anyone forget…

…when it was time to celebrate you bigger than the national debt.

I learned from the best…

…how to celebrate my life full of zest.

Now seriously Gma, you taught me to party harder than Mae West.

A love of leopard you instilled….

…which is now being passed down to the next generation, who’s thrilled.

It’s so fun you two met at a skating rink…

…even if after 44 years you still had to steal kisses quicker than an eye blink.

Although I took after Gpa avoiding kisses, rather craving a hard drink…

…you always insisted on showing your love, making sure everyone was in sync.

Beauty sleep and a hairnet was apparently all that you needed…

…but truly it was your hair ‘dos that always succeeded.

So it was with glasses and confidence that I superseded…

…the grace and confidence that you always heeded.

I wish I would have felt more impeded.

The Iowa State Fair you never did love,

probably because you couldn’t wear foot gloves.

It will never be the same, not bringing you a corn dog…

…and discussing how I ate my way through the fair like a prize-winning hog.

Being a crazy pants, entertaining aunt may be the death of me but it’s sure a lot of goddamn fun. A recent trip back home to Iowa was full of celebrations – and that’s just the kind of days this chick needed.

My Aunt Crazy Pants had a birthday a few weeks ago and although she’s kicking cancer ass, she still found her party pants. My sister (the not always happy about being my partner in crime but does it anyway) and Mama CBXB were able to join in on the festivities.

Fab four.

Birthday Queen.

Naturally, I couldn’t resist adding a little bit of fuchsia to the birthday bash.

I now want to grow a mustache. Only in the fuchsia hue.

We even forced Mr. Jakers to get in on the shenanigans.

We kept the thrown down going the following day because, well, why the hell not stretch out a birthday for as long as possible?

Can’t stop. Won’t stop.

It was also my Aunt Crispie’s actual date of birth, so it was a double party whammy. Naturally our trashtastic family always uses the ever classy red solo cups for guzzling beverages of the alcoholic sort.

A trio of fun aunts. You figure out the crazy one.

Being the fun aunt just may be the reason of permanent paralysis below my waist… but so worth it.

A back adjustment the old-fashioned way.

One of the perks of being a short adult is my capability of stuffing myself into an extra-large kids t-shirt. Therefore, I get to wear matching tops with Princess B while she still thinks it’s cool.

It’s party time!

We ended Aunt Crazy Pants’s celebration week with a trip to trivia night at the local grocery store (yes, that is what we do in small town Iowa and it’s fucking fun). Although my brain cells only provided one correct question of 20, our team “The Rats,” were able to slip into second place while having a laugh riot.

Trivia tomfoolery.

Being that I live 1,000 miles away in Nashville, cramming in all celebrations close to my visit date is common. Therefore, Santa made a special visit just for me – even with a small, glittery tree.

Christmas in March.

We also scrunched in an early birthday bash for yours truly, so I really raked it in (don’t worry if you haven’t picked anything out for me yet – you still have time and yes, I will provide a list).

The more the merrier in March!

Any Iowa birthday party of mine isn’t complete without a trip to see my bro-in-law, Dr. Cocktail, who makes libations that rival any mixologist on the planet (and no, that isn’t an overstatement).

Manhattan man.

Mine. All mine.

While there were only four adults present at the kitchen island, it sort of seemed a fraternity party took place when we were winding down. But that only means it was an evening of amusement, yes?

A party of four…or 44?

Regardless of the time my head hit the pillow, I had the two most adorable alarm clocks bust in and interrupt my beauty sleep with their not-so-spot-on rooster imitations.

Cockadoodle don’t.

Talk about a fun aunt. I went to visit my great aunt Marge, whose husband of 67 years recently passed away. Out of the five sisters in her family, her husband was the last to pass and holy shit was he was one gem of a person. He basically became the surrogate hubby to the four widowed sisters – much to his (dismay, perhaps?) delight.

Uncle Bill’s ashes sit in an urn next to Marge’s TV stand. She pointed at it and said, “I’m going in there with Bill but I gotta lose some weight first.”

A BV and water party night.

If there’s anyone I can think of emanating in this lifetime, it’s this spunky, hilarious broad. She’s 88, looks maybe all of 68 and acts 38.

After my Iowa party parade, I made it to the airport and back to Nashville just in the nick of time, as inches of snow were starting to accumulate. Although, I was a tad disappointed I didn’t get to play with my two faves in the snow.

Snow bunnies.

However, I’m not sure I would have fit in with this “angel”.

Angelic my ass.

Here’s hoping your day is filled with a little fun, a little crazy or a whole lotta both.

Folks often tell me that I act like my aunt Crazy Pants (I mean obvies, look at the jazz hands!).

The past few years for both of us have been nothing but a shit show (to put it mildly0 and she has been dealt yet another large blow in the last few days. Due to the fact that she’s spunky, with a ‘fuck this shit’ attitude (yeah, we’re waaaaay similar), reality is what it is and we’ll deal.

We could be known as Thelma and Louise (but we’re not as cool and fabulous – we wouldn’t drive off a cliff on purpose, we’d do it because we were lost and missed a turn) although we more often times resemble Lucy and Ethel (on our best days) but in reality we can most identify with Dumb and Dumber.

Crazy times two.

Of all of the things we have in common, we share a love of Jell-O shots which are a staple at every family gathering (classy, I know) and party I throw.

Jell-O shots = Love

I mean we really love the spiked gelatin.

Like really, really, really love.

Especially with whipped cream.

Our consumption of Jell-O shots makes us both more limber (until we wake up the next morning and can’t move).

Who doesn’t do a leg lift after a bit of J-E-L-L-O?

Hey-o! Jell-O makes me stretch almost to my toes!

However, I do not ever try to do tricks with my shots of liquor. There’s too much risk that it won’t make it to my mouth, which in my mind would be a travesty.

Upon making sure that whipped cream was ground into my carpet (thus I will not be getting my deposit back), Aunt Crazy Pants decided to go on a path of destruction in my mini manse by taking her tipsy ass into my beloved dressing room.

What CBXB does with extra bedrooms.

This wing of my mini manse is home to my two shoe towers (and no, I still don’t have too many shoes Dad and yes folks, I do wear all of them).

All was well in my closet kingdom until this tiny bull walked into my sparkly china shop and decided to trip into one of my towers that was bolted to the wall. The shelving quickly turned into a leaning tower of shoes, as it had about six inches in between the wall and the back of the racks.

Apparently, the whipped cream on her glasses obstructed her view.

We then had to call in Camo during our girls night in to put a temporary band aid on the problem so we wouldn’t be making any trips to the emergency room with stories of shoe boxes falling onto our heads.

Closet hero.

I’m a big help, I know.

Think HGTV will come calling due to my mad holding skills?

When Camo was rewarded with a beer, Aunt Crazy Pants tried to show her gratitude by mauling him.

Manhandling, Part 1.

Manhandling Part 2.

Make the manhandling stop. No seriously, make it stop. Somebody muzzle her.

L-Dawg came in to save the day (and Camo’s dignity) by wrangling Crazy Pants with a dish towel.

Making sure no more Jell-O shots spill and Aunt CP stays in her seat.

For the next eight minutes, all was good in my mini manse hood until this happened….

Down the Crazy Pant hatch.

There was no turning back once she was out of Jell-O shots, so we put a boa on her and made her dance (and we have videos to prove it).

Dumb and Dumber at our dancing finest.

I’m happy to report that the mini manse is still standing. But I’m certain that’s due to the fact that Aunt Crazy Pants went home.

Although now that’s she’s home, we need good juju, fabulous magic, positive vibes, abundant karma – and for anyone who lives close enough, margaritas delivered to her house.